


force majeure

by rethrone



Category: Monster (Anime & Manga)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Spoilers, but barely, era appropriate internalized homophobia, not wanting to want someone, shaking chihuahua suk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rethrone/pseuds/rethrone
Summary: There stood a man at remove from life, with tired eyes that bore out not into the distance, but somewhere much more far off.  His profile was recognizable, with not a bump or deviation to the bridge of his nose, every feature settled in a golden medium between sharp and soft.Like a very dulled knife.--Or:Nine years later, a reckless whim and an improvised date.
Relationships: Johan Liebert/Jan Suk
Comments: 11
Kudos: 36





	force majeure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meowtoba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowtoba/gifts).



One April day in the 9th year of his career, Detective Jan Suk made his third attempt and inevitable failure at picking up on the habit of smoking. The breeze had been as mild as it was forgiving, providing Suk with little challenge at lighting the stick. The sunlight had created beautiful strips of gold along the river’s surface, scattered and chopped by where the water decided on a fit, then converging again in a wonder unbothered by interruption. The sight filled the Detective with much-needed calm, and so it seemed suitable to try the refined liberty that smoking seemed to provide. This was his third attempt, yes, but his first attempt without the heckling laughter of colleagues who seemed to anticipate his failure to take to it. There wasn’t any reason for it, other than it seemed like something he should do, now older and doubting all sorts of things in his career and trajectory.

Maybe if he’d been the type to smoke, he never would have gone through the troubles that came with having naivete shattered much too late in life. The type that stared out at sunsets and would wind down with a smoke to quiet his mind would surely have recovered by now, unfazed by a singular setback in a sea of them, like the water below that came together and repurposed itself with the same dazzling view after being cut through by wind. 

The discomfort that burned through him on first inhale was expected, but knowing this didn’t seem to keep his body from rejecting it. He pushed a fist against his mouth and curled it around his cough, turning his head from what seemed to be another onlooker enjoying the scenery. It was this time, _le cinq à sept,_ that people tended to slowly gather and find their peace between work and dinner. He intentionally beat the crowd, often filled with colorful lovers, to try and master acquiring the vice without a potential audience. That someone had joined in so early had given him an irrational sense of being intruded upon, and with a few steps aside, Suk turned away to keep coughing and create more space for himself. He wandered several meters on the bridge and watched the shadow of the figure become smaller on the sandstone blocks. When it had become small enough to his satisfaction, a full statue away, he turned back to look over the guard and looked to his cigarette miserably. A small, final cough came out, and for a while Suk had stood and stared at the cigarette’s burning edge, bright orange and red weaving thin folds among mounting grey ash that faded with every second that passed. It was a taunting image, and one he looked at for far too long before noticing he needed a light again. If there had ever been need for a pep talk for what anyone would see as a stupid decision, now would have been the time—but he’d alwaysbeen like that, easily influenced by images on TV. 

Another flick at his lighter proved fruitful. The wind didn’t feel like making a mockery of him yet, perhaps because he didn’t need its help for that process. He inhaled with calm determination this time and turned his head, pulling the cigarette out and away in the opposite direction, hand resting at the surface of the rail. He closed his eyes tightly and fought the building sensation in his chest and throat, constricting the inside against it, not allowing any air out until yet another cough erupted—

It took only a second to realize it hadn’t been from him, and the surprise had him releasing a successful exhale with only a bit of a sputter. In wide-eyed disbelief of this small victory, Suk whipped his head to stare at the cigarette, watching its smoke drift over to his right side from the wind. He followed its trail just as another gentle cough came out beside him, leading him to a quick and flustered realization that his first successful smoke had been right in someone’s face. _Strange._ He was certain there had only been a saint’s statue beside him, but people tended to fill in unnoticed with the sound of the water and wind combined. He stammered out an apology and switched the cigarette to another hand, which didn’t stop the smoke from billowing in the same direction, causing him to let out a cough as well. Another cough echoed from the stranger beside him, and without much thought Suk tossed the cigarette over the bridge in guilt. The person’s head was turned away from the stream of carcinogen, hand over their mouth, and Suk had to stop the impulse to step in and make sure they were alright. 

“Sorry,” he repeated, as if the apology seconds ago hadn’t counted, and turned his gaze shamefully in the opposing direction of the inconvenienced person. There, with burning remorse, he noticed St. Adalbert in his looming vestment, hand raised in blessing overhead. He lingered on this vision, momentarily disoriented, as he’d been sure the statue had been situated to his right instead and not his left.   
  
Then, for no reason, or perhaps for a deeply intuitive one that came heralded by peals of bells in the distance, he looked over to the stranger once more, blood running cold. There stood a man at remove from life, with tired eyes that bore out not into the distance, but somewhere much more far off. His profile was recognizable, with not a bump or deviation to the bridge of his nose, every feature settled in a golden medium between sharp and soft.

Like a very dulled knife. 

He took in details quickly, the lighter still in his hand, now in a white-knuckled grip. A green scarf complemented a set of familiar blue eyes, giving off an almost meadowy appearance against the sun’s departure. The hair, still primrose pale, is lighter than the wig he’d worn but longer than his now infamous media pictures had shown to be. His hands, which Suk was frantically fast to look at through his shock, were empty, both placed up and draped over the rail.

Suk's breath held as Johan turned to give him a deferential look, eyelashes taking their time in a slow and fluttering blink, as if to instruct him to stay calm, to not make a scene. 

How he ended up angrily cutting at a medium-rare-plus steak across from him thirty minutes after was something to seethe about another time.

* * *

His knife made contact with the plate in an unpleasant groan that resembled an off-tune cello, the noise cutting above all cacophony of careless chatter that streamed in from the court and waited to be seated. He could feel the stress of the situation somehow seeping into his hair and throwing it out of place, watched as a few strands of his bangs lost their styled hold and succumbed to stray positions resting center of his view.  
  
And what a terrible, beautiful view it was: Johan regarded him as attentively as he could, all the while retaining a look of divided selves, present about in various places elsewhere and as he saw fit. There was a hollowness to his eyes that spanned past anything resembling tired; his brows were low and there had been a gravity to the area, skin depressed into a bit of a downward pull. A light and small web of purple streamed itself at the corner of one eye, a vessel that marred an otherwise perfect face. The rest of it all seemed a timeless and untouched pallid, but there was that undeniable concentration of withered survival around the eyes.

He wanted to feel angry at the deceptive frailty.

He wanted, at the moment, a lot of things he could not feasibly be permitted to feel.

Johan stirred the wine in his glass and, apparently, did not expect Suk to drop his silverware and push his seat back when he plotted his foot forward beneath the table, judging by the slow blink he gave. The shocked movement had caused Suk to push right back against the waiter serving the other table over, and a slew of apologies ensued until everyone seemed exhausted by it. He narrowed his eyes unconvincingly as he pulled his seat back in, a flustered color marking his cheeks, mercilessly highlighted from the chandelier above. 

Distraught by his own over-reaction, Suk picked his knife and fork back up and fixed his lips tight, as if to stop himself from speaking up. Johan watched him with a delicate edge, like he’d just seen someone suffer a great humiliation and felt indifferent to it. It certainly didn’t help.  
  
“Did you not want to come? You weren’t obliged to agree, Detective.” 

Suk’s insides felt as if they’d been cooked against the voice. It had spoken in quiet whispers and gentle incline, with an artful breathiness to it and lilts—an annoying amount of lilts poured into every other sentence. It forced a pleasantness that he refused to go along with, even as he felt teased at the question about his cigarette, even as Johan offered to be cuffed if it would make Suk stop reacting in such loud and embarrassing ways.

After a moment’s silence, Suk staggered back into the conversation with an expression fixed on a quavering try for seriousness. His fork, finally lifted with a piece of steak pitched on it, lingered in the air as he let out a huff.

“I _know_ that!” He snapped, but it sounded closer to a whine, and Johan seemed unbothered no matter the intent. “But what kind of Detective would I be if I let you get away?”

Johan didn’t seem interested in answering that. Suk curled forward a bit, slouching his usually straight posture inward to control the volume of his voice and still be heard. Johan, in turn, mirrored it with a tender slump in as well.  
  
“You haven’t had a sip of your wine yet.” The Detective’s eyes narrowed as if it were an astute observation that would lead to some great reveal. Or, perhaps, some sort of desperate distraction. “You just keep _stirring_ it.”

“Yes,” Johan admitted with a dreary weight. “I have been doing that, haven’t I? But it seems you haven’t taken a bite from your steak yet.”

Suk forced the piece of steak into his mouth with an indignant violence. Johan took a polite sip of his wine.

“Look,” Suk started after a hard swallow, “I’m not here to play guessing games.”

“Aren’t you a Detective?” Johan looked at him with an unearned playfulness, the pigment of his eyes brightening in a yield to the light above. Suk was woefully unsuccessful in tearing his own eyes away.

“That isn’t the point—” he stammered; cheeks lit to an even deeper flame at that. “You said it was a coincidence and I don’t believe that.”

Johan’s eyes glazed in a way that made Suk feel he was looked at but not seen. This is the type of look that made people scramble for his attention, he assumed. It is a look that he had given him in Prague once, during what seemed forever ago.

“Do you not want to believe it was one? You seem disappointed by the possibility.”

“What do you mean? What are you even saying?” Suk blurted in a transparent attempt to pretend what Johan just said was entirely outlandish. He even tried for an entertained smile, but it came off more like a spastic twitch.

“Why, the possibility that I didn’t seek you out, Detective Suk.”

Suk’s gaze dropped like lead and sunk to the table, his heart undoubtedly in tow.

So many years later, he thought. If he’d been the type to smoke, he wouldn’t be here. He’d be married by now or rightfully repulsed. He wouldn’t need to dig around to muster up anger or play at being incensed. 

He stayed still the second time Johan planted a foot forward and nudged at his.

Cavalier, Johan plodded a fork aimlessly through his salad and didn’t seem intent on puncturing the silence further. Quite firmly, the ball was in Suk’s court.

The noise was piling in behind them. Suk took a deep breath and tried for calm. He succeeded only in sounding sulky.

“So, um, I’m supposed to believe that it was just _fate_ that you were at the same spot, at the same time, and randomly had a dinner reservation planned that the other party _happened_ to cancel out on?”

“I don’t recall saying it was fate.” Johan smiled.

Suk’s face had taken on a strange interim of an expression, caught between dashed hopes and hungry curiosity. 

“I don’t get it.” His response floundered out from a flimsy pout that seemed to come from nowhere, replacing all the bitterness he kept weakly auditioning.

“I apologize, Detective, if it isn’t as romantic to you this way.” Johan offered as if he really meant it. Suk was equally disturbed by its delivery as he was mesmerized. “If it’s any consolation, I found my thoughts straying to a scenery like this every once in a while, over these years.” 

Suk straightened at that; his heart clutched in a chokehold. Johan spoke slowly. The light above inexplicably shuttered, and Suk wondered if he had nodded out for a second. 

“Perhaps I was led by that.”

So, it could have been a plan and it could have been fate and it could have been coincidence and it could have been Johan led by some unconscious desire, or all of them combined. That is the infuriatingly effective ambiguity he’d read about, so Rorschach-like, something he’d fallen into and shaped for himself many years ago. How his mind could know this and his heart couldn’t care less was a worse betrayal to himself than Johan could have ever committed.

“I’m not looking for anything romantic,” Suk doled out the words with a forced evenness, cutting into his food in decisive preoccupation. He could never pull off anything close to disaffected in this situation, that he knew, but a good Detective knew what control was in one’s grasp and how to effectively use it. 

“And the only consolation I need is that you aren’t out there hurting others.”

Johan fell silent for a second too long, causing Suk to glance up at him in wait, having not been sold on his own delivery. The man’s head was turned slightly, gaze following the swaying shadows and movements of the people outside of the door. The quiet between them only made everything else louder: the ringing sounds and gentle clanking of glasses, the stream of the indoor fountain by the stairway to the second floor, the setting of sampling domes and trays and all of the appurtenances that seemed to go with all things upscale. It stretched time unbearably for Suk, and he felt incensed at how adrift Johan seemingly felt—as if it were remotely reasonable to let his thoughts pass over a way to gain his attention back.

Every lively noise seemed in conspiracy to emphasize the quiet failure that suddenly visited the conversation, and it caused Suk to retrace his words in bitter resignation. Perhaps bringing up that concern had been patronizing, as if he had any say at all in enforcing such a thing. Technically he was _supposed_ to. Technically Johan wasn’t supposed to escape a hospital while in a coma.

Johan blinked as a crouton bounced off his cheek. After a second’s delay, he looked back over at Suk, and watched him relax fingers that had been poised for another hit.   
  
“That was rude, Detective.” But he smiled through a calm tone, not a trace of displeasure fought on his face. “There are other ways to ask for my attention.”

“We’re kind of talking here. The least you can do is not make me ask for it.”

“How prideful. My apologies. You said you weren’t looking for anything romantic, so my plans have changed.”

Suk dropped his fork and gripped the table quickly.

“Wait!” His voice raised, face flushing a concerning amount. He followed the blurted objection with a shameful shrink, head bowed and shoulders making a crawl upward, as if he could somehow hide his tall, strapping form. “You can’t be serious, can you?”

“About what, Detective?”

“It’s been years—and you needed information. It doesn’t make sense, it really doesn’t!”

“It’s been so long, hasn’t it? Surely you could imagine the steps I’ve needed to retrace, to find out what I’ve lost and misplaced along the way.”

Suk didn’t see how that explained or cleared up any confusion about this baffling scenario that Johan had orchestrated. The killer had become a part of the landscape of the region though—had been as famous as any fairy tale or war story and had imprinted himself on the collective mythology woven into the city. Or at least, a highly fictitious version of him, which is perhaps all that anyone had ever known of Johan, including himself. An entire region had become infatuated with the moribund that his name brought about, and Suk found himself no better, for the fact alone that he hadn’t already stormed away like any sane person would.

“And um, you tracking me down fits into that how?” Suk ventured something more direct, which he’d always been good at. The circumlocutions he’d been taught in interrogative work and questioning always went against his earnest nature. 

Johan’s smiled subdued to something almost gentle. Suk reminded himself of how good Anna was at that, to not attribute anything too meaningful to it. He learned his lesson on that, he was sure.

“How is your Mother?”

Suk felt suddenly very aware of Johan’s shoe against his once more and withdrew his leg.   
  
“She’s gone. Can you just answer my question already?”

There was a quieted stability in his refusal to engage that particular subject. Johan canted his head a bit and then leaned forward.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he nearly sighed out, to which the other stifled a skeptical scoff. The look he received back seemed puzzled in its patience, like he’d expected to have predicted something and failed. Whether it was the news or the reaction, Suk couldn’t tell; he wasn’t even sure what he’d perceived was anything more than a reflection of his own surprise at his attitude.

“You said you were retracing something. I just want to understand—What did you lose back here with me?” Suk demanded this time, an authoritative intonation forcing its way in unnaturally to an otherwise kind voice. The nature of the question unraveled the power behind it, revealing something lost and unfulfilled and cautiously expectant. A glaring weakness.

Johan gave him an expropriating look. 

“Laughter.” 

Suk’s mouth fell agape, brow taut and knit, like someone struggling to decide if they should be offended or not.

“Laughter?” He echoed weakly and reached past his wine for his glass of water.

“Yes.”  
“Oh—okay, fine, elaborate.”

They fell silent as a waiter revisited their table. Johan’s gaze stayed colorlessly fixed on Suk, while Suk felt compelled to engage in smiles and niceties with the staff. He muttered an apology to Johan when his attention turned back to him, of which Johan returned with a kind look patched on to his countenance. The way it could seem so close to sincere, anyone would be tempted by how easy it would be to nudge it to something believable. 

With a sip of his wine, Johan spoke with a closing distance in his voice, like words starting from some far horizon that came closer at an undetermined pace. It had the effect of slowly drowning out all surrounding sound while never changing in volume.

“I’ve found so many things when moving forward, by going backward. All sorts of discoveries. Things I found dull have become resplendent. I look so closely now, at the things I put away.”

He paused, and Suk sat up uncomfortably. The reservation that threaded itself in his brow and set his face to a mistrusting frown seemed to ease a bit while waiting for Johan to finish.

“But many things that used to excite me, I now feel nothing.”

A large party passed them and made their way to the stairs by the fountain. His eyes stayed on Johan’s, imploring. Johan picked the crouton that had been launched at him earlier off from the cloth of the table and set it at the corner of his napkin instead.

“You’re very funny. I thought, even if for a night, it would be nice to be in your company once more.”

Suk’s arsenal stuttered and faltered at that. His expression twisted and loosened entirely, melting into one of temporary defeat. How easily satisfied a wanting heart could be. Johan picked at his salad, content with the reaction.

“Did that answer suffice?” He looked up before taking a bite.

“Y—You could say that,” Suk muttered in shy misery. “I guess.”

“I remember you as chattier, Detective; I’ve talked more than I expected to, but I don’t mind.” Johan smoothly said, sounding a bit like he did mind.

“I wasn’t expecting this.” Suk started in creeping desperation, as if he needed to explain himself out of disappointment. His words were increasingly colored by passion—a nostalgic one for Johan. He repeated, forgetting himself in his volume. “I didn’t—I never expected this.”

Johan raised his head a bit, chin hitched as if looking at something displayed just for him, something presented, performed. He said nothing, and Suk spoke in turn.

“This… compromises me a lot,” Suk reached for the small vase that stayed on the table between them and restlessly picked at the leaves on the stems of the flowers. “Couldn’t you have given me a warning? Like, some notes or omens first.”

Johan gave out something a bit too quiet to be a chuckle. 

“Is that what you wanted?”

“It’s what I pictured! I mean, if you were ever going to show up again.” Suk forcibly lowered his voice again—having had to do it so many times by now that Johan found himself smiling more naturally.

“But I thought if I didn’t see you again, it would be a good thing.”

“Of course,” Johan said with what tried to be sympathy, but simply fell short in its calm. “And what of now, Detective Suk? Now that you’ve seen me.”

“I still think that.” 

Johan is startled into a small bout of laughter at that. Suk looked at his food, thoroughly lost on its prior appeal, cheeks warm at the uncanny sound coming from across the table.

“So… are you having a good time?” He found himself asking to his complete shock, not even bothering to hide the small wash of hope in his hesitant tone.

“I’m enjoying myself.” Johan returned, all ease and no doubt. He then reiterated, a bit playful and wholly, undeservedly familiar. “I’m enjoying compromising you.”

“That’s good,” Suk practically coughed into his fist, obviously livened by what might be read as a flirtation. “Then you wouldn’t be opposed to, um, walking with me after this.”

“Walk,” Johan repeated, raising his brows ever so lightly. “Walk where?”

This only caused Suk’s face to burn more profoundly rubicund. He squeezed and rolled a petal between his fingers as he pressed his lips together for a second and glanced around for a steal of privacy. Not that the volume of his voice was very conducive to it.

“Just…with me.” He insisted in a fretful tone he couldn’t shake. Johan gave an oblique hum and Suk was content to take it as agreeable. Though he’d lost interest in his food, he found it only appropriate that he would try for a final attempt at finishing it, to show appreciation. Johan finished the pith of his salad and set aside a generous amount of cash, causing Suk to feel ever the miser, but not enough to dispute it.

Johan put his coat back on and Suk averted his gaze, anxious to leave, never having taken off his coat in the first place. He was so lost in thought and mapping out the rest of the evening’s interactions that there was a drag to his step which all but caused him to miss the opportunity to hold the door open for his—company, companion, whatever—for the night. A jovial, elderly man who had been holding the door open for the woman accompanying him ended up giving Johan a nod and letting him through; Suk sprung to awareness at this moment and hurried to the door, quite uselessly relieving the man of a duty he had already completed and getting caught up in holding it open for the stream of parties in and out, like a school of salmon in formal attire. His overspare build helped him to see over most heads, and he looked around with a bit of desperation he failed to conceal, remembering freshly even years ago “Anna’s” talent for vanishing into thin air. Sure enough he’d lost sight of the most wanted man in Europe, and after shouting an apology to no one and everyone in particular, Suk abandoned post at the restaurant’s doors and quickly stumbled away from the crowd, looking to his left and right, feeling very much on the level of a young pup in his capacity for object permanence.  
  
“Mister Detective—"

He blenched with a yelp when Johan spoke up from right behind him. He pivoted to look over as Johan continued, either uncaring or considerately playing oblivious at his struggle to regain composure.

“I thought you’d abandoned me.” Johan smiled, though it was only seen in his eyes and heard against his tone; he’d ensconced himself in his scarf and coat so snugly that the lower half of his face was comfortably hidden. It was almost, in some entirely different dimension where Jan Suk had been afflicted by amnesia, _cute._

Suk pulled at the lapels of his own coat and held them taut as he tried to save face. 

“Excuse me, but only one of us has the whole disappearing act down.” 

“Perhaps. But you certainly have more reasons to walk away tonight, don’t you, Detective?”

Johan said it more like a helpful reminder than anything playful. Suk gave him a fleeting puzzled look before turning to face ahead again, back toward the district’s center. The sun had set and absorbed with it the final warmth in the sky, pulling it down to distant strips on the horizon, obscured by crowded architecture of which vibrant colors are effaced by the amber glow of the night. Prague, by design, was stripped of its color at evening and given a gorgeous, perennial golden hue, and Suk recalled with excruciating detail how this had conspired against him many years ago and made a pair of blue eyes stand out against the atmosphere, boldly refusing to conform to it.

Tonight, there is a tranquil remoteness to them that he’s noticed; like a traveler-friendly spot on the edge of wilderness, settled and habituated and comfortably looking over the unknown. Instead of being lost in them as he had been years ago, Suk felt as if he were standing before them—at some worn entrance—and waiting to be invited in.

It had been nearly a decade, and it wasn’t unreasonable to assume Johan had changed in some ways. With so much speculation, unqualified and specialized alike, about nature and wiring and profiling, there was a natural pushback against the idea that the killer had been truly tamed. Even Suk had been imbibed with enough of it, despite his long deputation and independent investigations into the reading seminars, the Red Rose Mansion, and any other macabre interrelations he could access that surrounded the infamy of Johan Liebert.

“I have more reasons to stay,” Suk maundered out the words like they weren’t hopelessly betraying of a thawed infatuation.

“Interesting. Where to?” Johan’s tone had a diminished presence to it as he pulled his scarf down a couple of centimetres.

“Will you still come with me if I say it’s a surprise?”

“I’m afraid I can’t be surprised.” Johan said in somewhat of a lament, and Suk chortled as he whipped a look over at him.

“Sorry, _what_?”

“The only surprises aren’t planned as surprises. There cannot be thought to them, I’m afraid,” Johan sighed as he looked ahead. The crowd maneuvered around Suk as they passed, but seemed to avoid Johan’s space altogether. The oddity of it is what made Suk realize they had been standing in the middle of the sidewalk for some time, quite obliviously.

“Uh, well, just because you’re expecting a surprise--” Suk ushered Johan with a tap at his shoulder, quick and reserved, “…Doesn’t mean the details of it can’t still be surprising. “

He began to walk toward the side, closer to the light by which they would wait for until the road cleared back to the pedestrian bridge. Taxis were dropping people off here in a post-rush hour line.  
  
“Doesn’t it?” Johan echoed back in a ghostly manner, and it was startling to Suk, the way that he attributed this conversational quirk to some enigmatic charm years ago and how disquieting he had found it tonight.

“Not at all. You’ll see.”

“Then I’m interested. I assumed you were going to take me back near where _Three Frogs_ had been—where you had walked me to on our last departure. I’m now curious.”

Suk’s eyes widened an appreciable amount before he averted his gaze from Johan and looked straight on to their path. His brow twitched as he controlled his expression and tried to untighten his throat’s suddenly strangled hold on his breath.

“Good,” he affirmed and walked on with purpose, bringing a fist up to his mouth and coughing into it for a second. His gaze darted to various parts of the city ahead as he coolly spoke on. “You should be, because it looks like you’re in for an actual surprise.”

Johan smiled in faint amusement behind him and didn’t bother to match his pace, trailing by a couple of steps.

“It seems I’ve underestimated you.”

“And are you—surprised that you did?”  
“No. Not quite.”

Suk looked back at him a bit timidly and slowed his pace. As they walked in matched steps, he glanced down at Johan’s shoes, noting the lack of heels this time around. Johan was a bit shorter than “Anna” as a result. The material looked expensive, but surprisingly scuffed in comparison to the impeccable presence of Suk’s shoes. He couldn’t quite get a good look with all of that nudging going on beneath the table. With how quickly his cheeks ignite in heat at the recall, he makes it a rule for himself not to think of anything incapacitating like footsies or Johan’s given reason for their reunion.  
  
Besides, he now had imperative improvisation to be foolishly preoccupied with.  
  
As they walked along the ebullient crowd on the Charles Bridge, he noted the gulf of time that had passed and how different everything now was. Tonight, he was not mesmerized by long-flowing and impossibly silky golden hair that swayed with every languid step like before. This time, he was taken instead by the etiolated tone of Johan’s hair and skin, so coolly pale that the streetlights seem to reflect off him instead of on. It misplaced him in the atmosphere, made him uncanny, and was far away enough from the artful manner in which Anna had fit into the mysterious sepia tones of Prague’s afterhours that it made Suk feel—confident. He was too aware now. He could approach this, perhaps, with the mustered finesse of a Detective who habitually smoked.

Their stroll across the bridge fell into silence that Suk decided to remedy, mostly to cover for the fact that he’d now had to find an actual way to surprise the terrifying person beside him. Talking to simply fill the air with chatter had been far more preferable to doing so in an attempt to propitiate an audience he kept losing and was reluctant to interact with at all. He spoke of the first time he ever tried to smoke, which he had refused to talk about at Johan’s initial prodding. He’d been only a week hatched out of deskwork and in his first ride-along with Inspector Zeman, and his curiosity had gotten the better of him when Zeman stopped for a bathroom break. Much to his dismay, the Inspector and his partner had returned just as Suk was choking on his first attempt, and Johan seemed pleased at this detail, a bit more of a livened involvement within the underlying weariness of his expression.

As Suk went on to his second attempt, which had been the night he heard Johan had likely escaped from the hospital he was held at, Johan’s naturally leaden eyelids lifted in subtle entertainment. Suk’s continued rambling evinced the reward he obviously received from the sight of it. He didn’t even omit the painful details of how a gaggle of teenagers had witnessed his second failure, and how his humiliation dragged on as they took pity on him and tried to teach him proper form.

“I don’t know,” Suk laughed as he topped off the story and ran a hand through his hair. “I think they were just trying to embarrass me instead of help me.”

They had been approaching the end of the bridge. Now was the time to venture in precisely the opposite direction that he had planned to go in.

“Do you doubt people’s sincerity often these days, Detective?”

Suk shot a wary look at Johan, like he hadn’t had time to decide if that was some sort of personal dig or callback to their brief and embarrassing history.

The moment had been successfully stolen away and seemingly on a whim by Johan. Suk couldn’t determine if it was cruel or innocent.

“Yeah, I guess,” he answered slowly. “But people are complicated, right? Being insincere doesn’t mean they’re bad or that they even mean harm.”

“I’m sure people don’t doubt your sincerity.” Johan said with a declivity in both his words and expression, and he became quiet after that. 

Suk veered opposite of where Anna had stayed years ago. It was a bit irksome, to have his effort totally discarded for some further philosophizing by the man—formerly a beautiful woman, formerly a monster. He felt as if Johan preferred him squirming under a magnifying glass. 

“I’m sure they do,” Suk countered after a long enough lapse that seemed to signify the death of their rapport. “People have been through all kinds of betrayals or painful discoveries, so I’m sure a lot of people have had no faith in the things I’ve said.”

More silence. Suk found himself quickly nervous and frustrated, as if his entire being insisted on being captious to compensate for the meteoric pace of his heartbeat. To protect himself from what was already a catastrophic whim and curiosity. Find things to be annoyed or insulted by, find a reason to stop this terrible thing he’d been swept up into.

“A—Anyway, I’m sure that you doubted my sincerity that night,” Suk began in a way that felt fumbling and unplanned, surprising himself by bringing up something he didn’t want to acknowledge: how self-centered and unaware he must have seemed to a totally made up person, and none of it mattered--so why did he still feel a compulsion to redeem himself? “But…”

“I thought you were very sincere, Detective,” Johan interrupted. Suk felt his chest tighten as he refused to look back at the gaze that he could sense had been turned on him.

“Even now, I believe you are being sincere. I don’t question it at all. It’s so very…” Johan trailed off and looked up at the sky, leaving Suk gawking and tempted to implore him to go on.

For the sake of his pride he refrained.

“How--how do you know you’re not underestimating me again?” Suk started, though he didn’t quite know what so compelled him to challenge Johan. It felt like a senseless struggle at this point, and yet he continued on. “I could be leading you to an ambush. I could be intending to apprehend you or even take you down.”

Johan gave a transparently dismissive hum, one that poorly masqueraded itself as considering.  
  
“If you had been planning any of that, you’d hesitate with the right look of surprise or betrayal,” Johan paused at Suk’s choked noise of offense and shock before continuing. “And I would regretfully end our night by putting you in the river.”

“I’ve changed,” Suk stopped walking abruptly, expression flared in a bid for control. He quickly slapped a hand to the right waist of his coat. “And I’m armed!”

“Detective Suk, you trusted me not to be?” Johan intimated and didn’t stop walking, out of the light, into a gap of dimmed space between Suk and the next lamp along the path.

Suk’s blood froze at the words. He didn’t move from his spot as more distanced formed between himself and Johan. More so than fear, there was a panic that stemmed from something inexplicably doleful; the same thing that kept him immobile also had him shouting indecorously:

“You’re lying!”

Johan stopped.

Suk continued and stepped forward out of the light.

“You’re lying.” He repeated, the frequency of his confidence increased. “You aren’t armed.”

There were many reasons for Johan not to be. He never was one to guard his life actively and aggressively—he left it up to the mechanisms he put in place and some aleatory whim of causality. He was certainly disinterested in killing these days as well, as nothing had shown up with his mark since escape.

Johan looked over his shoulder with an unreadable expression, obfuscated in the dark. Suk stepped closer, more certain, wanting a clearer vision of him. His tone dropped, warm and with revisited shyness.

“And you said that you don’t doubt my sincerity,” he stopped a few steps from him, clearly emboldened by what seemed like hitting the mark. “You don’t doubt—me,” Suk’s gaze struggled to steady against Johan’s piercing one. “You planned on seeing me, and you know that I wouldn’t—”

He cut himself off immediately as Johan turned with one hand holding half of his coat open, while his other hand held a revolver half-unsheathed from an interior pocket.

Suk’s expression fell, then twisted into flustered disappointment.

“Oh,” he murmured, face hot, nerves suddenly on edge with this reveal. “O-Okay. I guess that makes sense, but so did the other thing.”

A small laugh escaped Johan and he closed his coat. His figure shook in the poor lighting and he placed both hands up in the air, in his best disarming gesture, shoulders rippling with an attempt to suppress another laugh behind a pressed smile.

It was the oddest sight Suk had ever seen—recognizably Anna’s laughter at his reenactment of his favorite Detective show, but jarringly distinct. Anna had laughed in surprise; Johan had just laughed like Suk was fulfilling some nostalgic expectation. It was tempting to think it sounded fond, which was a disorienting notion that had Suk’s head spinning to thoroughly reject.

Johan’s laughter did finally taper off, but not in his eyes, and his smile remained so gentle and lamb-like it was eerie.

“I had planned on seeing you, Detective Suk.” Johan said slowly and sounded almost—human for a moment. Like he possessed affect, like he was present and anchored.

It was chilling.

Suk inhaled to say something, but Johan looked as if he had wanted to continue, and Suk felt compelled to swallow down his words and wait with preemptive captivation.

“But it was planned for two days from now.” he dropped his hands and Suk kept still. Two days was the anniversary of his Mother’s passing, he usually timed his hours and overtime to get the day off and visit her grave. That was decidedly distressing and creepy and should not have a single overlap into flattery.

Johan tilted his head and stepped in closer to Suk, stopping midway upon seeing the detective tense.

“So you see, it really was a happy coincidence to run into you on the bridge today. Like many times before, my plans disappeared in a plume of smoke,” Johan’s voice evened out, the effects of the entertainment minutes prior having worn off and given way to placid serenity. “I accounted for the possibility, of course. This very thing, the possibility that you might not be very happy to see me, even with so many days and nights between us.”

Suk felt like he wanted more space, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Johan’s words shot a reckless curiosity through him, even as he failed to prevent a cautious glance back at the side of his coat that had concealed the gun. When his gaze flitted back up to Johan, he felt his breath catch.

“I wanted to see if I could go back. Back to the ease of that evening, where you seemed to enjoy yourself with me.”

Johan shifted and clasped his hands behind his back. His tone had picked up from its droning and into something that Suk could only place as regretfully enlightened.

“But you know of me now, don’t you?” Johan said slowly, and Suk noted the “of” that had been carefully placed right away. “And just like so many things retraced, it seems there is no such thing as going back.” 

Suk tried and failed not to look a little heartbroken at the implication, and failed even harder not to feel it as Johan went on.

“I usually enjoy being wrong.”

His words were disappointed, but he’d built back up an impenitent tone that Suk felt the need to defy. He raised an eyebrow and lingered in a moment of uncertainty until Johan’s gaze fell away from his—not in shame or aversion, but rather like there had been a natural weight to them and he’d exhausted the last of his power to keep his eyes open at all. Without another beat, Suk stepped forward and then forward again, past Johan, to determinedly grab one of his hands and forcibly unclasp his fingers in the process. He lacked delicacy as he tugged Johan along, and decided to ignore the way Johan’s steps seemed to stumble in an attempt to prevent his arm from twisting and not resist. If Suk didn’t witness it, he had no proof that Johan did normal things like stumble or almost trip or feel disappointment in Suk’s perfectly reasonable guard. As far as he was concerned it was still in the realm of impossibility, where he had—until today—quite fervently placed the idea of meeting the person who deceived him so long ago again.

Johan was both impossibly light and like dead weight at once as he led, and when he’d ascertained that Johan was agreeable to following, he let go of his hand with more hesitation than he cared to deny to himself.

“Tell me about yourself this time around,” Suk threw out with too little assertion to qualify as a demand. “What have you been doing all of these years?”

“No, I don’t think I will.” Johan rebuked, so gentle that it felt like it carried on the breeze that followed the direction they walked in. Suk looked over at him in jilted surprise.

“Seriously?” He whined, and took a few surveying glances around them, perhaps with the unnecessary intent to keep them safe and alert on their surroundings.  
  
“You seemed fine with it before, Detective.”

“Yeah, but I had been hoping that patience would pay off.”

“I’ve worked hard to have things that aren’t in a book for others to read.” 

Suk _knew_ Johan didn’t have a bratty tone, he did. He knew he was totally imagining it and had to be. He regretted that interview, those interviews, whatever. He was young and stupid and trying to process a lot.

“Okay, _fine,_ ” Suk exhaled surrender and then peeked shyly over at Johan. “You have to know how weird it is that you expected me to act normal or treat this like running into an old friend.”

Johan stayed silent as he walked. His eyes scanned passing alleyways and strangers with lacking involvement.

“Or—someone that I liked.” Suk kept his eyes on Johan as if the process was physically painful. Johan kept his eyes away and stayed in fortified silence. His gaze lingered on the names of the street signs as they turned a corner.

Suk tried not to be discouraged. He kept on, dogged, and made another grab for Johan’s hand in a decisive strike. He was wholly unprepared for something limp and corpselike to hold his hand in return in an awkward movement that initially felt like a rigor spasm and settled into something passably normal.

It was an effective counterattack and broke Suk’s gaze, sending it cowering forward.

He felt slightly insane. Possibly very.

“What I’m trying to say is that—you’re right, I can’t just return to how it was and I’m sorry if that’s, um, disappointing to you,” Suk carefully started, as if he had to defend himself from the nonsensical feeling that he was disappointing Johan by not staying frozen in time for him. “But—that doesn’t mean that, _hypothetically_ , I still couldn’t make you laugh or have a nice time with you.” Suk practically litigated his claim as Johan continued to not look at him, continued to hold his hand.

“Like, in a scenario where I’ve lost my mind and laws don’t exist.”

Johan had a hint of a smile that went unseen.

A group of about four men came from around the next streetlight and Suk broke the hold he had on Johan’s hand once more. They seemed unconcerned with the two and tied up in their stories, and all had been holding cigarettes away from their mouths as they laughed. They were probably having a very normal night, Suk thought. Must be nice.

Now if he were to run into one of his colleagues—

“I think I know the surprise now.” Johan’s gaze joined his in looking ahead.

“That doesn’t count,” Suk said a bit quickly in cheeky defense. “If you figured it out at the last second it’s still a surprise.”

“It is an obvious choice for a rendezvous. So obvious that I was sure you wouldn’t choose it.”

“Yeah, well,” Suk frowned and blushed. “That was strategic obviousness.”

They stopped walking to look up at the famous astronomical clock.

“Even as a choice made under duress, at the last second…” Johan started in faintly amused reprimand.

“It wasn’t at the last second!”  
“Alright, Detective.”

Suk turned to face Johan entirely, and Johan mirrored the motion, eyelids still leaden and dull. He stayed fixed on them for several seconds, noting they were bereft of everything that had drawn him in years ago; they were not putting on a forlorn and aching distance nor were they gleaming with concern and wonder.

He had been so foolish, and still was, for finding the ones he looked into tonight possessing an equally strong pull.

“Think about how many times this clock has fully cycled through all of its—silly hourly shows, since we last saw each other.”

Johan’s gaze flitted upward. “Around three thousand two hundred eighty-five.”

A few seconds of silence passed as Suk slowly inhaled. He then reached a hand out to Johan’s shoulder, watched Johan seem to eye it passively, and abandoned the action midway, rerouting his hand to gesture at the clock instead.

“Okay, that many times. But there are the parts that don’t move too. They’re stationary, and—there are parts of me that have not changed either.”   
  
“You are saying you are the clock, or that your feelings are. How interesting, Detective Suk. Go on with your metaphor.”

Suk dropped his hand, cheeks reddened.

“Fine! If you’re going to just make fun of me, then I won’t—”   
  
Suk was cut off by Johan abruptly drifting forward, the acuity and grace of his movement accompanied with a startling removed look. Suk quickly placed a hand up on instinct and stopped Johan in his tracks with a nudge at his chest. He inhaled sharp enough to realize he forgot to breathe; eyes widened in dawning disbelief.

Johan seemed unbothered by the rejection, if barely present. He kept a light weight against Suk’s hand and looked at him like it was—nothing, to just do that, whatever it had been.

“I apologize,” Johan blinked heavy. “I become fatigued easily these days.”

It was believable. It felt—maddening. Johan looked tired, but he had nearly the entire encounter. It could easily have been some anemic bout and nothing intentionally redolent of a fumbled kiss years ago.

He wished he could school his expression or that he had some sort of guard to protect him in response to the questioning of his own judgment. Even a gun felt insufficient.

“Could I --?” Suk blurted out and hated the world a second after as he hung on Johan’s reply.

“Yes.” Johan smiled that dreamy Anna-smile from years ago, but with that veil of exhaustion around his eyes that reminded Suk of where he was, when it was, and who was in front of him.

Suk adjusted his hand to grab the end of Johan’s scarf and tenderly gathered it in his grasp. He moved forward as Johan turned his cheek to him, which was cause for only a second’s pause before Suk pressed a kiss a bit too eager to be soft against his skin. It felt like plunging into freezing waters.

And, just as soon as he was done, Johan took a step back. Suk had to clumsily release the part of his scarf he’d been holding to allow it.  
  
“Hm.” A thoughtful hum followed a curious look as he pressed a hand to his cheek.

Suk was aghast at himself. He had to be psychologically evaluated after this, definitely, had to retake the mental fitness test at the academy. The forfeiture of any rational thought was heralded by a sickeningly puerile fluttering in his stomach.

Most concerning is that Johan ended much of his agony with a simple pleased smile.

“You did surprise me.”

Suk practically stumbled forward, insistent.   
  
“Sorry, just forget that!”

Johan stepped back in response, as if it were some game of chase.

“I will see you in two days like I had originally planned. After that, I do not intend to return for another year.”

Suk faltered, failing at several tries for a reply. He finally settled on a hopelessly dumbfounded “okay.”

“I have more to finish, so much work.” Johan canted his head like it was a getting too tiresome to carry it on his neck, and looked far off once more. Suk watched something cloud his eyes that he felt could only be understood with the passage of time, if ever.

A year. A year? That was too much time to think, to get his head on right, to realize how much he’d betrayed tonight. Just as he fretted, Johan reached a hand into his coat and caused Suk to quickly pale.

A piece of torn napkin is pulled out. Suk realized he held his hand out obediently once it was placed there.

“This is the number and room of the hotel I am staying at. I will be calling you from it if plans change, Detective.”

Suk paused.

“Um, this is right next to me.”

“Well, yes.”

Suk looked around, then at the paper, then back at Johan.

“Okay, so, did you want me to walk you home or something…?”

Johan turned just as Suk could see him breathe out a weak, private laugh.

“How convenient.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as I went and totally unplanned as a gift fic to AO3 user meowtoba, who has given us starving fans of this ship so much! And gifted me fic for my most major OTP in another fandom! For like no reason! She's just that benevolent and creative! The editing stages have been completed in fevered sickness but I believe it's presentable now. The other Monster fic I'm working on has a lot more dark content so it was nice to get something shippy out for Emma :) the ambiguity! What the hell is Johan thinking? Is he fucking around?  
> Well, enjoy <3


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